


“If this typewriter can't do it, then fuck it, it can't be done.”

by notjustmom



Series: Tom Robbins Remix [23]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluffy Angst, M/M, angsty fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 10:30:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14186931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: John has a nasty case of writer's block...





	“If this typewriter can't do it, then fuck it, it can't be done.”

Well, no, not a typewriter, of course. That would be ridiculous. 

John growled at the glowing screen; he'd had a nasty case of writer's block since the night Sherlock returned, it had been a fortnight, now. No, not simple writer's block. He pushed back from the desk and grumbled aloud as he got to his feet, "it's no longer a block, it's a fucking pyramid, the bloody Sphinx..." as he somehow managed to stomp silently into the kitchen. He eyed the cupboard that held the bottle of single malt, and watched his fingers reach upwards, then stop. His left hand curled into a fist, then he closed his eyes and let out a slow shuddering breath as he felt Sherlock's chest at his back, then his slender, but strong arms wrap carefully around him and sleep-warmed kisses gently press into his shoulder.

"Hoover Dam, the Great Wall?" Sherlock whispered into his hair.

John chuckled, then leaned back into Sherlock's embrace. "Even so. Why are you up? Did I -?"

"No."

"Shit. Nightmare, and I wasn't there -"

"John. I've been gone for over two years, you had your own life -"

John turned in Sherlock's arms and looked up into exhausted eyes. "Sher -"

"No. You had created a routine, you had adapted, as you always do, one of the many things I admire about you. Adapted to an existence without me, and now, though happy to have me home, you are trying to work me into your adaptation -" As John shook his head, and made to form words, Sherlock kissed him gingerly, then put a steady finger over John's lips and cleared his throat. "Let me finish. I - honestly, I wasn't sure what I'd find when I came home, after all, you hadn't a word from me for over a year. You could have left, found someone else; decided I was dead, or had simply moved on, forgotten me, somehow, forgotten our life together, and yet... when I looked up at our windows, I saw you standing there, as if you knew somehow - but you weren't looking at or for me. You were about to give up, finally give in to those voices that had been telling you to move on, it was past time - of course, something's going to give way, Bumble. I am sorry it is your words that are failing you, when you need them most." His hands left John's hips and settled on his strong jawline, and watched the tears overflow and stream gently over his fingers. 

"Your words will come back, John. They will come back, Bumble." 

He let go of John's face and breathed out a sigh of relief as John collapsed against him, finally mumbling everything into his chest, over his heart, all the words that couldn't make it from his brain down to his fingers and finally onto the screen. All the loneliness, fear, hope and love, that kind of love that writes its way onto pages of fairy tales and movie scripts, the everlasting, perhaps overcliched kind of love, the only kind of love that John was capable of, as he never did anything halfway. 

After his words drifted into silence, interrupted only by the occasional hiccup, John slowly looked up at Sherlock and cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, Bee. You don't deserve - you made it home, and that's all that matters. Do you know, honestly know, how ridiculously happy I am that you are home? I'm not sure that I've actually told you that, in those exact words. One day soon, I'll be able to sleep with you, and know that when I open my eyes, you'll be there, solid and real, not a dream. But for now -" He covered a yawn with his hand and rolled his eyes at Sherlock's raised eyebrow. "Can you stay with me, and hold me as I fall asleep. I'm so very tired." Sherlock kissed his hair, then nodded and took both hands in his and walked them backwards to their bedroom, undressed John, tucked him into bed, then slid in next to him, gathering him into his arms, kissing his forehead and running his fingers down John's back until he felt John finally tumble into a deep sleep.

 

John blinked at the mid-afternoon light, that had tapped away at his eyelids, forcing him into consciousness. He sighed as he felt Sherlock still lightly draped over him, sound asleep, if the snoring was anything to go by. He snorted and shifted carefully so he could look at the man next to him. So very real, still bruised and healing, far too thin for his liking from his - hiatus - yes, hiatus - an excellent word. They had both survived their hiatus from each other, but both had been changed, John finally understood. It was something that Sherlock had realised the first time he held John in his arms, he had known that John had undergone a transformation, just as he had, and though there were no obvious wounds that could be kissed and cared for, he still had suffered, and it would take time for him to recover.

"Bumble?"

"Hmmm?"

"I was going to get up once you fell asleep, do an experiment, or something, but you - you were sleeping so peacefully, I studied you for hours, and then you tangled around me so tightly, and asked me to stay... you know I'm very much here, with you, don't you?"

John nodded and pressed his fingers against Sherlock's chest. "Yes, Bee. I know, now. I do."


End file.
